Just In a Week
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Series of vaguely related or not writings for the Winterhawk Week on Tumblr. Clint x Bucky
1. Chapter 1

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 1: First meetings. Separating this from my Unmade Men drabble series because these were created specifically for the Winterhawk week over on Tumblr.

.

* * *

.

Clint's in Germany waiting for a hookup on a job. It's a simple one. The standard here's your target shoot him from this distance type deal. The kind of work that's not really exciting but fills his bank account anyway.

He's in a warehouse with two other men. Partners who hadn't shown the least bit of interest in talking to him when he showed up, and Clint's fine with that. He doubts they'll be working closely together. They've both got the build and toys of men who get up close and personal with their hits. Clint's assessed them and holed himself up in a neat little perch just above a shipping container that's so rusty he doubts it's ever been used.

Not at all like the shipping container he's directly facing now. That one is rusted and dented to hell and back, but the hinges on it are perfectly clean and well oiled. The ground around it is clear of any debris and there isn't even any of the gritty dirt that's just about everywhere else in the place.

The partners are eying the container too, and that speaks pretty well for their attention but only to a point. They're both focused intently on that one single container and Clint too now. They're not really paying as much attention to the dozen or more other entrances Clint can see from his perch.

This whole warehouse is lousy with hidden doors and blind corners. It's almost set up like a training ground. Like one of the hundred or so shoot houses he used to get run through in the Army. Clint doesn't bother fixing his attention on one particular area. He just leans back in his perch and waits for the first sign of movement from _anywhere_.

Clint doesn't have a partner to rely on to watch his back so he's better practiced at it than the men on the ground. He catches the first hint of movement long before they do.

A man is moving through the warehouse. Circling them and not trying too hard to stay hidden. Just enough to test them, and Clint'd be pissed at it if it didn't mean he's got front row seats to seeing a couple of on edge mercs fail the test spectacularly.

The shipping container opens up as expected and a few men step out. Well dressed and not armed at all, but even that doesn't tip of the partners who stupidly decide to leave their backs open to the man ghosting around them to confront the group.

Clint snorts and the sound gets him a roomful of eyes. It's also all the distraction the man needs to ease up right behind the two mercs.

The man isn't very tall but he's built a lot more solidly than either of the men he's nearly breathing on. He's armed and armored like a tank and that alone should be enough to impress anyone, but it's the way he carries himself that lets Clint know this man is not someone to be messed with.

His eyes are a pale blue that look gray in the shadows created by his long brown hair. Messy and going a little stringy from sweat that Clint wonders about. He ignores the looks he's getting from everyone else and stares back unashamedly at this man.

He's not calling the shots on this job. That's obviously the work of the assholes who are now smirking smugly at the two mercs who still don't know they got someone close enough to their backs to touch if any of them so much as breathed out of synch. This man isn't in charge but Clint knows a major player when he sees one.

There's nothing in the eyes that look right back at him. No emotion or hint of the thoughts going on there as he raises both of his hands. Just enough to ghost a few fingers over the exposed necks of the mercs.

Their reaction is fast and predictable, and Clint doesn't bother hiding his laughter as he slides back down to the floor. The sound of his boots on the floor interrupting the tense silence of two men looking down the sites of their guns at the stranger.

"Nice trick," he says in English even though the two men sound French and the suits are definitely German. "You got a hat to pull rabbits out of too?"

He doesn't get an answer, but there's a twitch in the straight line of lips that stills as the man turns his eyes to the suits. And now he's completely blank. An attentive but empty soldier standing at attention —and it is attention, Clint recognizes a military stance from the tension in his body— and waiting for orders.

Clint's intrigued despite himself. Which is a bad thing from a job that's supposed to be all about getting paid and then getting the fuck away. He schools his face to his own version of blankness —a slight smirk and a bit of arrogance that's expected from him— and turns back to face the people who've hired him. This job has already become a lot more interesting and Clint doesn't want to do anything to get him kicked off it before he gets a chance to find out more.

Being a merc isn't always the most exciting of jobs all the time, but there's some jobs that make it all worth it and Clint's pretty sure this is going to be one of those jobs.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 2: disabilities. Went AU with it.

.

* * *

.

Clint laughs too loud every time he brings a jar out to Bucky to open, and Bucky does it easily with only one hand. The asshole only does it when they have company over too. Steve's gotten used to Clint's particular way of poking fun at the people who fall all over themselves to be accommodating to Bucky's disability and only smiles over it now.

Steve used to be one of those people, and it'd taken a while for Bucky to get past that. To get his best friend to stop feeling so damn guilty about a roadside bomb no one saw, and doing shit that had hurt Bucky more than it helped. He suspects Clint had a hand in helping with that mess too, but his boyfriend conveniently "forgets" how to read lips whenever Bucky tries to bring it up.

Which also might be Clint's way of prodding him to buckling down and learning ASL despite the fact that they communicate just fine. He's got the alphabet down, but anything more than that starts to run into the problem of him having to figure out how to make coherent signs with just one hand. There's a few teachers at the center Clint works at willing to help him tackle that problem, but Bucky's been shrugging out of it lately.

"You think too much," Clint says and his strong fingers dig into the tensed muscles of Bucky's shoulders. His words are distinct and easily understandable despite the slight slur to them that comes from not being able to hear his own volume. Bucky's used to it, and knows that Clint's so good at it because his hearing loss came so late in life. He's learned that from the few kids he sees coming in to be taught how to speak. "You need to let it go."

"Nothing to let go," Bucky grouses but they both know he's lying his ass off about why he hasn't come down to the center lately. Even when Clint tells him some of the kids have been asking about him. "It was just some stupid shit."

"You're avoiding it," Clint says and leans forward to place a kiss on his lips. Firm but brief.

Bucky waits for Clint to lean back enough to see to sigh. An obvious movement to his shoulders. He clenches his hand into a fist and places it against his chest, rotating it around clockwise. He is avoiding the center, nad he's going to be avoiding it for a few more days at least before he can even think about trying to go back there.

"He's gone," Clint repeats his assurances. The same ones he's been making since Bucky nearly blew off years of therapy trying to kill someone's asshole uncle who had _opinions_ he couldn't fucking keep to himself. "We told the family he's not welcome anymore, and they're all sorry about him. Jessie thinks you blame him for it."

Low fucking blow. Bucky grimaces at him and taps the side of his head twice with his closed fist to tell Clint that. Clint's smirk is unrepentant and he leans back into the couch. Crossing both of his arms over his chest as he looks at him in challenge. Obviously goading Bucky into doing something about it. "You tell Jessie his fuckheaded Uncle has nothing to do with him!"

"Tell him yourself," Clint raises one eyebrow and Bucky knows the man isn't going to let up on this. He's let Bucky sulk and hide for weeks now, and is obviously tired of it. "He will be in tomorrow."

It's a pointed ultimatum, and Bucky knows his boyfriend well enough to know the next step is either going to involve bringing Jessie here —something that breaks so very many rules of the center— or will involve Bucky waking up to Nat and/or Pepper. And in the long run, Bucky's more concerned with what the women can do when they have their minds set to it than Clint breaking rules for him.

"Fine," Bucky agrees through his teeth. Angry even though he knows he's not angry at anything Clint is doing. He's angry over the incident that had left him with bloody knuckles and a bunch of kids looking at him with large and terrified eyes. He's angry at the fact that he'd seen himself in their eyes and he'd been monstrous and out of control. A worse kind of man than the asshole he'd hit had outright told him he was.

"It'll be fine," Clint slides back over and Bucky finds himself wrapped up in Clint's arms. "They didn't understand what was happening. They know, we explained it. It's not you they're upset with anymore."

Bucky doesn't answer. Not because Clint wouldn't know what he was saying, but because he can't even think of anything to say right now. He holds onto one of Clint's arms with his right hand. Pressing his five fingers hard into the flesh to reassure himself, because the words Clint's muttering —almost indistinct now— aren't going to do anything to ease his anxiety. Nothing is going to do that but going to the center and seeing the kids for himself. Seeing with his own eyes how many flinch back from him, and how many don't.

"I'll go," Bucky says to himself though Clint probably feels the vibration of the words. It's going to hurt and it's going to suck, but waiting is worse. "I'll go."

They don't really talk or move from the couch for the rest of the night.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 3: snipers.

.

* * *

.

"You son of a bitch!" Clint howls as he's killed only two steps out of the respawn point. He growls and tries hard not to throw his controller over the conference table and into Bucky's smirking face. "You camping son of a fucking bitch! Let me at least get one shot off before killing me."

Tony cackles from his own screen and game set up next to Bucky. Clint sees Tony's avatar rush across his screen and is honestly surprised the man doesn't stop to take the time to t-bag his corpse. It's the kind of juvenile shitty thing that the man seems to love. "Losers bitch, winners get dinner! And I- aw come on!"

Clint laughs as Tony's avatar spins through the air like a limp rag. Limbs and blood flying everywhere as Nat rushes past him. Taking cover as a few sniper rounds barely miss her. Her smile is tight when he looks over at her and he nearly laughs as he watches her switch to a sniper rifle that he doesn't know when she got it. She doesn't look over at him but he already knows her plan. "Losers crow about their winning before the round is over."

"The writing is already on the wall," Bucky says completely unconcerned and a few more bullets ping up around Nat's cover. Dirt rising in puffs as Clint's timer counts down. The man grins over at them both. "I think the points are pretty telling already."

"Only because you can't help pulling Clint's pigtails," Nat says just as Clint respawns and jumps away from Nat's cover. He gets sniped immediately, but Bucky's curse as Nat goes the opposite way and snipes him right back is sweet to hear.

"Hah!" Clint crows because now it's going to take the asshole some time to get from respawn back into that sniping position and Clint's not going to let that happen a second time. Then Nat's words register in his mind. "Wait, what?"

"Aw, again?!" Tony groans as his attempt to sneak up on Nat ends in his avatar getting it's neck broken. He throws himself back in his chair and makes a surprised noise when it rolls with his weight. "What's wrong, Tweety? You miss the memo on Grumpus here wanting your nicely formed- Ow!"

Tony drops his controller as Bucky's does a pretty damn good job of making like a boomerang. Clipping him hard in the temple in a way that Clint knows from experience is supremely painful. The man disappears as he hunches down, and the chair goes shooting back. Clint hears the man's muffled cursing coming from under the table, but he's paying more attention to Bucky who is studiously not looking at anyone.

The man's not blushing, but his eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling and he's scowling hard enough to kill. There's an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders that Clint's learned to read as uncertainty from Bucky. A rare emotion that the man hates feeling.

"Really?" Clint asks even though Bucky's body language screams about how true Tony's accusation is. Past interactions and conversations slide around in Clint's head and take on a new light. An intriguingly new light, because Clint's not going to lie. He's appreciated Bucky's unique combination of black humor and sharp edges with the soft-guy interior buried deep. He's done more than appreciated the man's looks and body, but neither are things that Clint's seriously thought about taking further.

Trying for more from people you have to work and live with when there's no sign of reciprocal attraction is a recipe for disaster. Clint's learned the hard way that it's best to not be the one to make the first move.

"Yes, really," Nat says and a chime draws his attention back to the screen where she's racked up enough kills and points at the end of the match to pull them ahead of Tony and Bucky while they were all distracted. She pushes away from the table, all smug, and gives them a Cheshire grin. "Now, since the loser is paying for dinner I'm going to suggest James take Clint out to that bar that does those ribs. Tony, you can make me a reservation at Le Bernardin. For _one_, Tony."

"Cheater," Tony groans as he levers himself up. Leaning hard on the table he scowls at Bucky before carefully pointing a finger in his face. "You're finding your own way to your date, mister. No using one of my cars after hurting me for trying —out of the goodness of my heart— to help you with your sucky ass love life."

Tony only sways a little as he draws himself up and steps away from the table to saunter out. Still speaking and waving his hands in the air, "Remember the protection though, and the lube. Nothing worse than not having enough lube for the freaky fun times. And don't do anything that's going to knock me out of the scandal pages so soon. I just got a good one going the other day and want to see it play out before the vultures start circling you two."

Clint blinks at the very unsubtle exit of the other two and feels his lips twitch as he turns to Bucky. "So tell me, so I can feel like a proper idiot, exactly how obvious have you been that those two got irritated enough to team up on this?"

"Not enough to warrant this," Bucky snorts and gets up. Stretching his arms up and back enough to make his spine crack and his shirt ride up. Clint doesn't look away because he's pretty sure he's allowed to stare now. Especially if the way Bucky's wry smile turns warm at noticing it is anything to go by. There's an edge of caution to it that's almost covered by the charm he's seen the man turn on other people before. "So, can I treat you to a plate of the best ribs in the city?"

"You kinda have to, so that doesn't count as treating me," Clint grins and the caution solidifies before something in Clint's face makes it slide right off of Bucky's face when he stands. "You can treat me to a nice cup of coffee afterwards though."

"What, some Starbucks crap?" Bucky asks as he circles the table to stand in Clint's space. "Not sure any of those places are going to be open when we're done eating."

"Good thing I wasn't talking about Starbucks then," Clint hooks a finger into the loop of Bucky's jean and pulls just a little. Enough to make him sway forward a bit before Clint's stepping back and heading for the door. "I'll settle for a cup of whatever crappy coffee you have in your kitchen."

"I'm out of sugar and the milk's spoiled," Bucky follows easily enough and there's a look of intent in his eyes that makes Clint wonder if they're going to actually get around to dinner tonight or not.

"I drink it black," Clint lets Bucky catch up to him in the suspiciously empty hall leading to the elevators. He can see that something rectangular has been duck taped to the doors and wonders whose wallet it is. It does answer his idle thoughts about dinner though. Nat's going to force the issue. "You might want to look into fixing that though."

"Later," Bucky promises and peels his wallet off the doors. They slide open obligingly once the tape is off of them and Bucky doesn't look phased in the least when he flips it open to pull out Clint's ID for him. "If Natasha hasn't already fixed that herself by the time we get back."

Clint laughs and Bucky's grin echoes his amusement, because they both know that line was an open invitation to have the woman waiting for them both in the kitchen with several gallons of milk and a couple of pounds of sugar to go with her defiant stare.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 4: Injuries.

.

* * *

.

He's been hit in the head. He's concussed. He's been hit in the head.

The mantra repeats as a low, annoying drone in his aching head and he wants to stop it. Wants to just lay down in silence and agony, but the mantra is _important_ for reasons he doesn't know.

He's crawling. Somewhere. To or from something is another thing he doesn't know but he doesn't stop. It has to mean something that he's crawling this way. Maybe help is over there.

Where? He doesn't know. All he can do is claw at the ground to drag his heavy body forward another few inches. It's dirt ground. Hard packed with some loose bits on top that look like sand and feel like it when it gets in his mouth and grinds against his back molars.

He's been hit in the head, he has a concussion. Help. He needs help.

Blood falls in hypnotic little dots as he moves. Falling from a wound he knows is there but doesn't remember getting. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch though. It's on his face too and in his mouth. The sand he's grinding his teeth against tastes like copper.

He doesn't know his name or what he's doing or why he's doing it. Trying to reach for an answer -any answer- brings up a dull roaring in his head and a confusing tornado of images that threaten to make him black out. So he doesn't do it. He stays in the now and lets the was and will be slip away from him. He can't afford to focus on anything else.

Help. He needs help because he was clocked on the head and he has a concussion. The mantra is burned into him now and he doesn't know he's saying it out loud until he hears some other voice repeating his words.

"Bad, there's a lot of blood," the strange voice says and he tenses at the intrusion, but he'd been looking for help before and there's the scuffed tip of a boot interrupting the broad expanse of ground he's been staring at. "No I don't think I can wait. He's bad off and I need to get a bandage on him now. I'll take the black eye if he reacts badly."

Most of the words don't mean anything against the flare of pain as something is pressed to his head. Something in him screams to lash out, that he's being attacked, that this is an enemy. But there's something else in him that screams just as loud. This is not an attack, not an enemy, this is _help_ and he needs it.

"Easy, easy, I've got you," the voice murmurs and the tone is soothing and just familiar enough to tip him away from the choice to attack. Fingers drag at his face and he feels the rough edges of bandages seconds later. Digging in and holding. A bandage, a compress. This _is_ help. "Don't take my throat out and we'll get you one of those nice little morphine suckers the medics like to hoard."

He opens his eyes. Slowly and painfully and finds he's on his back looking up into sky blue. Eyes though. Not the actual sky and he wants to say that out loud because the violent side of him is quieting down and flirting seems like something he does when he's not crawling around in dirt and blood.

The man is familiar and gives him an even more familiar crooked grin when he notices the stare. "Easy Buck, the men who know what they're actually doing are on their way. Stay awake for me, alright?"

"Sure," the word comes out like sand and blood. Gritty and coppery over his lips but the man doesn't flinch away so he tries his own grin back. "Anything for a looker like you."

The man laughs and he'll stay awake for that sound alone. He resolves to pull as many laughs out if the man as he can before the medics come. Make him laugh, make him smile. The new mantra is better than his previous one.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 5: AU

.

* * *

.

The Winter Soldier is a myth, a legend, the kind of story told to all good little criminals to keep them in line. Bucky's heard more than his fill of stories in his time. Ghost stories really about a man who is never seen but whose calling card is always unmistakable.

An arrow. An honest to fuck arrow shot from a bow which only adds to the whole mythos going on about him, because who the fuck uses shit like that these days? Who uses it _successfully_?

Clint Barton apparently.

Another legend in his own right. Though a lesser known one often forgotten about in the presence of Captain America.

Sergeant Clinton Barton had been a sniper. He's still a legend in the sniper school Bucky went through. A carnie with an unbelievable record that's still not been broken to this day. A cocky son of a bitch who'd boasted he was even better without the sights, and was unbeatable with a bow. An untested boast that had died with him.

Supposedly, as far as any records he's seen have said anyway.

Bucky's pretty sure there is some record of the man's survival somewhere. It's the only explanation he has for why Natasha stuck her neck out the way she did. Endangering a mission to help Steve out. Something he fully approves of, and would have been happier about if she'd given him a heads up about before SHIELD collapsed and left him stranded in Guyana.

That was not a fun time for Bucky. He'd resorted to calling _Stark_ to get him the hell out of there when his whole team turned out to be Hydra, and the man is showing zero signs of letting that go anytime within this coming year.

Coming back to New York after that shitfest and finding a flesh and blood incarnation of a legend camping out on his couch is just the kind of icing on the cake of bad that is his life at the moment.

"He's not stealing your bed," Natasha's voice echoes in the bathroom as Bucky washes a week's worth of blood, dirt, and sweat off of his aching body. The new soap bar is already half gone and the water's still running dark with filth. "I am."

"You won that bed fair and square three years ago," Bucky reminds her of the poker game no one speaks about but everyone still abides by anyway. Bucky nearly loses the soap when he recalls that right now they're the only two living people who remember that clusterfuck of a bender. He takes a deep breathe and boxes away the tightness and the burning for later. When he doesn't have company around. "The bed's yours but the couch is still rightfully mine."

"He'll run if we try to place him elsewhere," Nat says, and she's not even trying to hold back her punches. She's tired and feeling the same grief he is. She just likes even less than Bucky and is willing to take it out on others. "You're just going to have to share. Shouldn't be too hard for you. He's exactly your type after all."

Nat's gone when he rips the shower curtain open and there's a pair of sweats on the sink for him. Along with a pillow and a blanket. The sweats are his favorite ones. So well worn and soft he barely notices he's wearing them. They're also the pair he never wears around company outside of Nat and Coulson. The holes and thinness of the cloth, he's been told, make them rather indecent. Bucky's going to have to give Nat an ass chewing in the morning for this desperate bid. Seducing people into staying is her gig not his.

Though he'll be damned if he isn't tempted to try when he trudges back out into the living room.

Barton's vacated the couch and has taken the recliner into a back corner of the room to curl up on. His eyes are an amazingly vivid color that Bucky's surprised he never heard about before. Probably has something to do with no one being able to live after seeing him.

"Thanks," Bucky says and dumps his load of stuff on the couch, and, because he's an asshole who likes to lash out just as much as Nat, he fixes his own intent stare on the Winter Soldier. "Don't slit my neck in my sleep. Nat'll make you clean it all up in the morning, and then you'll have to take care of my dog."

Barton says nothing but the intensity of his state eases and his lips quirk up. It's an infinitesimal quirk that breaks the bland mask he's wearing, and makes Bucky want to go give Nat that ass chewing right now. She's right. Barton is exactly the physical type that he prefers, and Bucky stretches out on his couch trying to ignore the fact he's making plans to widen that little lips twitch into a proper smile.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 6: Smut, just look for the link to this chapter in my profile.

.

* * *

.

The best thing about going out to a club like this is that Clint doesn't have to work very hard to try and figure out what people are saying. The music, beating like a second heart in his chest, is so loud that no one can hear a damn thing. Everyone is reduced to communicating the same way. With looks and touches.

It's freeing like nothing else to go out an not have the freakishly large hearing aides, the only ones he can afford, in his ears. Drawing attention to him in all the wrong ways. Without them he can actually have fun. Can move with the pretty people dancing on the floor, and just have fun.

Sure, there's a few people who try to talk to him by shouting in his ear, but all he has to do is grin at them or ignore them. He knows what they're asking, there's only one thing people ever ask here, and the answer is almost always going to be yes.

Clint grins when the man who'd slid up behind him two songs ago to grind against him leans back. He gets an answering, slow grin from behind a messy curtain of hair that already looks sex ruffled and a hand at his lower back. Pushing and guiding him to the back of the club. Where the lighting is dimmer, the speakers louder, and the people there nicely paired up and far too interested in themselves to give anyone else a second look.

He's pushed up against a wall and the man's pressing up against him in a matter of seconds. Clint hums as he lets his hands wander down a back he already knows is solid muscle to an ass in tight jeans that demands to be squeezed. Teeth bite into his lips as the man laughs into their kiss, and Clint laughs right back. Not worried in the least that he might be laughing too loud for once.

It doesn't matter, nothing at all matters in this place because no one can hear.

Clint sucks in a sharp breath as those teeth wander down to his neck. Nipping teasingly at first, then hard enough to leave a mark when he tilts his head back to give access to anything the man wants. The man shifts even closer, almost too close for Clint to breath, and braces his left arm on the wall next to Clint as he wastes no time going for Clint's pants.

.

.

[And see my profile for a link to the unedited version of this chapter if you're interested. Have to comply with those rating rules of the site. Unfortunately.]

.

.

He lets go when the man slumps against him bonelessly. His left arm sliding down and off the wall to hang limply at his side as all of his weight is held up by his right arm and the face he still has pressed against Clint. Clint doesn't make him move as he tries to flick the worst of the mess off his hand, before dragging it against the filthy wall.

Now is the time when Clint usually tucks himself back in and either goes off to find someone else or go home. The man's not moving though, and Clint kind of likes the heavy and warm weight pressed against him as he slowly convinces his knees they really don't need to shake. It brings back the dangerous thoughts though. The kind of wistful wondering of what it'd be like if he took this man outside of the club, took him somewhere to put in his hearing aides, and then asked for his name.

Dangerous, dangerous thoughts.

Clint's disappointed when the man pulls back and fumbles his dick back into his pants. His right hand more skilled at doing up the button fly than both of Clint's hands had been at undoing them. The smile he gives Clint is every bit as shaky as how Clint feels as he steps back. Eyes not quite looking at Clint before he turns. His left arm still hanging limply, and Clint has just enough time to think that the man wouldn't say no if he asked. That he might not even balk when Clint pulls out his hard plastic hearing aides.

By the time Clint jerks away from the wall to look for him, the man is gone though.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: One of the bonus optional themes, Autumn/Halloween.

.

* * *

.

It's strange seeing people running around in familiar costumes. Not the kids, Clint's gotten used to seeing mini Tony and Steves swarming the streets with a horde of Hulks. The occasional Thor and Nat breaking up the parade. Even a few min versions of himself that he's kind of terrified to see even as it warms his heart.

The kids are something he fully expected to see because kids are impressionable. They don't see the gray in the world, only the black and the white. In their world, they were all heroes, and every little kid wants to be a heroes for Halloween. Clint knew that and had prepared himself for it. He'd just forgotten about the fact that kids aren't the only ones who dress up this time of the year.

"They're just costumes," Bucky butts in after Clint nearly swallows his own tongue as a trio of slutty Iron Women sashay their way down the street. Their hair matching shades of blonde and their voices equally high pitched. Clint's seen slutty Captain Americas, Black Widows, Thors, Hulks, and even himself wandering the street all day. Most of them girls who really don't look old enough to be alone let alone wearing those scraps of cloth. "I don't see why you're getting so worked up over this."

"Fuck you, you'd be the same way if you saw yourself walking down the street," Clint winces as he sees a girl with baby fat still on her face nearly get hit by a cab because she's too wobbly on her heels. She's wearing a short skirted slip of purple that Clint was only able to identify as his costume due to the crappy rendition of a SHIELD emblem and the plastic bow she's carrying. "Why purple?"

"Have you seen your uniform?" Bucky asks because he's a dick, an asshole, and completely unable to let anything lie without adding his own bit of sarcasm to it. "The purple is the only thing memorable about it. Of course people are going to focus on it."

"Nat wears all black," Clint protests, but Bucky's smiling charmingly up at the waitress bringing them their food.

"And every Black Widow you see has garishly red hair," Bucky says when the woman wander away. Already halfway through his sandwich. A Black Widow conveniently walks by to illustrate his point. She's wearing a catsuit unzipped nearly down to her stomach, and a red wig so big it probably started off as a Medusa wig. Nat tends to hit the bottle hard when dying her hair, but even she doesn't go that vivid unless a mission calls for it. "So stop being so surprised every Hawkeye is going to be wearing purple."

"Interesting," Bucky says and he's not just being a dick this time. Clint turns to see where he's looking and there's an a group of women doing some truly impressive justice to all of the Avenger's costumes walking down the street. The costumes are obviously handmade because they're not the standard and cheaply made slutty versions Clint's been trying not to think about all day. There's more skin on display than what he's decided —frighteningly enough— is the norm for the costumes, but at least these women are unmistakably _not_ jail bait. Small comfort really. "Think you could pull that off?"

Clint chokes a little on the fries he was shoving into his mouth when Bucky nods to the group's Hawkeye. It's a disturbingly accurate version of his uniform. With the stripes and buckles even though the pants are a skirt that barely covers the dirty blonde woman's ass. She's not wearing heels, but the boots she has on look heavy enough to cause serious damage. Clint finds himself thinking that, yeah, he probably could pull that off before common sense catches up to the thought and smacks it down. "What the hell, man, you haven't even bought me dinner yet! You don't just dive into the kink negotiations cold like that."

Bucky looks down at the table and pointedly eyes their plates of food before shifting his gaze to the bill that he'd snagged when the waitress left.

"A _steak_ dinner," Clint clarifies because hell no is he this cheap. A cafe sandwich with fries and soda is just not enough. "Also, since when is this a date?"

Bucky gives him a flat, unimpressed look that Clint's all too familiar with from Nat, and that's fair enough. Bucky had asked him out to eat, and his wording had been pretty pointed. Ambiguous enough to make Clint wonder and second guess the whole thing which made him jumpy, and when Clint gets jumpy he starts running off at the mouth about whatever is going on around him. Like the skimpy costumes people are wearing.

"Fine," Clint grudgingly gives in and accepts that this is in fact a date. It's a shift of perspective that makes him settle a bit. "But I'm not this cheap. You're going to have to work harder if you want me putting out anytime soon."

"No I don't," Bucky disagrees, and he's —sadly— right. The smug little grin he gives him is enough to make Clint wonder how quickly he can finish his food and get them back to the Tower after all. "But I guess I'll save the weird sex talk until tomorrow's steak lunch."

"What, I don't merit a proper dinner?" Clint's lost track of the costumed women and is back to seeing cheap knock offs occasionally dotting the streets.

"I'm just not that patient," Bucky responds flippantly and Clint notices he's almost done eating. "How about that one though, think you could pull it off?"

Clint looks over obligingly and nearly chokes again on a fry. A man strides down the the sidewalk across the street wearing another handmade costume. Though this one has clearly been modeled after the slutty ones. He's grinning wide at the double looks he gets from the costume that barely covers anything and Clint has to laugh at the size of the man's balls.

"I can pull it off _better_," Clint says and folds his sandwich up so he can shove it all in his mouth before washing it down with three long pulls from his drink. Bucky looks absolutely intrigued when he looks over and Clint grins. "But you won't know that until tomorrow. Now go pay for the rabbit food and meet me back at the Tower."

Clint pushes away from the table and leans down a little as he passes Bucky. "Think the price of this meal is just enough to get me on my knees for a bit."

Bucky's chair scrapes loudly against the concrete and Clint doesn't bother pausing to watch the man hurry inside to pay the bill. He winks at a woman dressed in a Black Widow costume that she's altered with some crumbled up aluminum foil around her left arm. The running mascara is a look he reminds himself to bring up later with Bucky. Much later.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

**Just In a Week  
**

**A Word**: Day 7: fluff.

.

* * *

.

"Really?" Bucky asks ad doesn't bother trying to hide the goofy smile that he can feel spreading across his face.

"What?" Clint asks, and the tone of his voice is defensive but his grin is every bit as goofy looking as Bucky feels like his is. "You're going to answer a question with a question?"

"That's a question?" Bucky asks just to be a contrary dick, because there's really no mistaking the question Clint's popped. Not with him still on his knees and holding up a black velvet box with a ring in it. Platinum and tasteful which fits with the evening they've had so far. Surprisingly, because tasteful and Clint just don't go together very well. "Who planned this for out for you? Nat or Steve?"

"Why would you think I'd need any help?" Clint pulls an exaggerated pout at the doubting but doesn't actually move to get up or take the box back. He's still waiting, patiently, because Bucky hasn't answered him yet. He knows that the fact that he hasn't said yes or no yet is not an answer, and that his sarcasm is just a delaying tactic.

"Because I know you," Bucky drops the questioning tone he was intending to take, because in the end he really doesn't need all that much time to decide. He admires the fact that the ring is just shined enough to stand out should he try to wear it on his left hand over the right. "Fine, I guess someone should make an honest man out of you."

"If anyone is being made honest here it's going to be you Mr. Barnes-Barton," Clint grins as he stands and holds the ring up questioningly. Bucky hesitates before holding up his right hand, allowing Clint to slide the ring on there. It fits perfectly and that means Steve's been involved somehow in all of this. Clint's grin is blinding as he presses a sappy kiss to the gleaming ring on Bucky's hand. Bucky feels stupid at the way that makes his heart clench and his breath catch. "Also, we're not wearing white. At all. I don't think I can take Tony's teasing on that."

"Steve will be heartbroken when he finds out my virtue isn't intact," Bucky kind of wants to see Clint in white now, and wonders what he's going to have to do to convince the man to wear it. He likes the image and the plans he's making. Bucky pulls back from Clint whose grin is turning smug at the success of the night. "And my stomach will be equally broken if I don't get to eat any of that soon. Tell me someone else cooked that, please."

There's pasta and bread on the table lit by candles, and it smells fantastic. Which is clue number one that Clint didn't actually make it himself. Though, Bucky's been wrong about that before, horribly wrong.

"Bruce," Clint says with a laugh and Bucky sighs because Bruce means Tony on top of Nat and Steve.

"Did the whole team get involved in planning this?" He asks as he sits and notices a bottle of wine in a freestanding bucket. It's probably expensive wine from Tony.

"Only after Fury made it an official mission," Clint's still grinning and Bucky kind of gets the feeling that the man isn't going to stop that anytime soon. There's elation all over his face, and even as he's putting some food on their plates he can't really stop looking at Bucky. His attention between Bucky's right hand and his face.

"Sap," Bucky says as he pops open the bottle of wine for them. The candle light catches on the ring on his hand and Bucky knows he's really no better. They really do deserve each other.

Clint's snickering as Bucky pours for them both shows that he fully agrees.

.

.


End file.
